Guilt Trips
by Artemis's Liege
Summary: Expelled from his latest boarding school and possibly responsible for the death of his twin sister, teenage Jean-Paul Beaubier, A.K.A. Northstar, finds himself at the Xavier Institute. Sometimes he talks to Bobby Drake, who never says anything in return.
1. Prologue

**A/N**: Rated T for language and mentions of sexual encounters.

This story tells five times Bobby could have spoken to Jean-Paul and the one time he did, from Jean-Paul's perspective.

* * *

Prologue

* * *

The sun was shining in the blue sky, unhindered by any clouds or the slight breeze, but Jean-Paul Beaubier remained melancholy as he slouched against the black leather interior of the silver Lexus. He wished that the day had been gray and inclement to match his dismal mood.

The majestic, towering trees that lined the serpentine driveway of the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning reflected on the the tinted windows of the luxury car, until they came to end. As a replacement, neatly trimmed hedges resting behind teams of meticulously arranged flower beds bordered the smooth driveway. The break in the trees provided Jean-Paul with a glimpse of the extensive grounds, but he was wasn't inspirited by the sight of the beautiful estate.

"This school doesn't look half-bad, Jean-Paul. There's a lot of grass out here, so there's plenty of room for you and your friends to play a game of soccer or football," Raymond Belmonde said, glancing at him for a moment, before going back to steering the car.

"_Pourquoi êtes-vous parler anglais ici_?" Jean-Paul asked sullenly, not even looking at him while spoke. "_Il n'y a aucune raison pour cela._" (Why are you speaking English here? There is no reason for it.)

"You would do well to adjust to speaking English from this point on," Raymond warned him. "That's the language everyone at your school is going to know."

Jean-Paul slouched against the black leather seat at the mention of his new school. "I don't see the point in bothering to attend," he muttered.

Raymond opened his mouth as if to respond but then apparently had seconds thoughts and clamped his jaw closed.

Finally, they reached the school building. It was an enormous mansion modeled in an older English style, brick, with ivy climbing up the sides.

"There." Raymond said, nodding. "Picture perfect, isn't it?"

It was beautiful, but Jean-Paul was accustomed to seeing objects that were superficially appealing. He refused to be impressed.

Raymond pulled the car to a stop at the side of the driveway a few yards from the steps, and cut the engine. He turned to look at Jean-Paul seriously. "I've known you for six years, Jean-Paul, and you've always been stubborn. But listen to me when I say this: you _must_ adapt to this school. Your parents are furious that you were asked to leave St. Thomas Aquinas's Academy for Young Men. They feel as if you've disgraced the family."

At various times when he was inclined to feel generous, Jean-Paul was sympathetic to Raymond. When the man had been promoted in the company to assistant of the owner of the popular designer clothing line Argent, he probably expected to be working with the actual clothing line, managing, marketing, or manufacturing, not supervising the owner's children and their school situation. Young and handsome, only in his mid-twenties, when Raymond should've been out dining at upscale restaurants and spending time with friends, he spent his time convincing the headmaster not to expel Jean-Paul or discussing Jeanne-Marie's departure with a police branch.

_Jeanne-Marie_.

"I know you don't enjoy talking with your parents," Raymond continued. "But they are entitled to feel angry about this. It's the third week of September, and the headmaster already requested that you leave his school at the beginning of the second. That's not exactly a sterling record. And his reasons for asking you to leave . . . well, I'm disappointed that you didn't learn from your mistakes last time."

"I wouldn't have to do that if my parents would let me stop that f***ing modeling arrangement," Jean-Paul snapped. "I don't know why the hell they make me do that crap in the first place. Pulling my weight for the family, my ass- "

"Dammit, Jean-Paul!" Raymond pounded the side of the steering wheel in anger. "You slept with a teacher for a grade once during you eighth year and you were found out, and then you got caught doing the same thing not even a month into your ninth! There is no excuse for your behavior, none! The only reason the headmaster at St. Tom's didn't expel you was because you were a minor and legally a victim in that kind of situation! And due to your decisions, those two young women are never going to be able to teach again!"

"Those teacher women were the ones who accepted my offer in the first place and then provided me with liquor. And I only did that because I was failing subjects due to my constant rushing back and forth to model for my parents' clothing line!" Jean-Paul retorted. "I don't care what they say about having to 'learn responsibility,' and 'do my part for the family,' they only do this because they like controlling me and f***ing with my mind. They could pay for another model, hire someone legally, but they put me front and center because I'm marketable and they don't have to pay me wages. This school isn't going to be any different. This will just be another school of going back and forth to one of the Argent studios to shoot ads."

Raymond sighed wearily, and Jean-Paul suddenly felt guilty about his angry tone. "I realize that the past few months have been very difficult for you, Jean-Paul. First your sister's disappearance, and then the discovery of your mutation, two events that must have been very stressful."

He had "discovered" his mutation about a month after Jeanne-Marie had left, following an overheard conversation between one of the private investigators his parents hired. His father had been told there was little chance Jeanne-Marie would be found alive. When Jean-Paul had downed a bottle of sleeping pills, gone joyriding in his father's Lamborghini until it crashed into a tree, and completely recovered hours later, his parents had paid off a geneticist to keep quiet and test him for the mutant gene. Neither he nor Raymond mentioned this part; hell, Jean-Paul had never discussed the incident with anyone, and he did his best not to think about it.

"This school may be for mutants, but it's not going to help. It can't remake me into a different person, which is what my parents seem to want." He may have been mistaken, but Jean-Paul thought that he felt the beginnings of a headache.

Raymond sighed. "Jean-Paul, there's a prospect that I've been discussing with your parents. I think that you should see a therapist to- "

"No," Jean-Paul said flatly.

"Jean-Paul, you are fifteen years old. It is completely understandable if you have difficulty coping with this- "

"If someone found out that I a mutant- "

"You wouldn't have to discuss that," Raymond told him soothingly. "But Jeanne-Marie was your twin sister. It's obvious how much her disappearance upset you- "

"Stop calling it that," Jean-Paul commanded. "She didn't just '_disappear_' one day. She _left_. When the police checked her room, they found clothes and money missing. She ran away because of what my parents did to her."

"Don't blame your parents for what happened to her," Raymond replied sharply. "They couldn't have known that a childhood modeling career would have resulted in Dissociative Identity Disorder. No one could have predicted that would happen. And the police found unopened bottles of medication in her room. She hadn't been taking anything, and that was why she behaved in such a volatile manner, and- _left_."

Guilt and worry twisted in Jean-Paul's stomach. He had known that Jeanne-Marie hadn't been taking her medication, but when she had told him that the medicine made her worse, not better, he had naively believed her. Though at fourteen, almost fifteen years old, he probably should have been much more perceptive than to think it was a good idea that Jeanne-Marie was going to try to cope on her own, without using pills.

And look where that had gotten her. No one knew, of course.

Raymond exhaled with a touch of exasperation. "Jean-Paul, your parents love you very deeply, and they loved Jeanne-Marie- "

"Like hell," Jean-Paul cut in. "They raised to be a model because they want to show me that its only my looks that matter. Their goal was to teach me that I'm worthless beyond outward appearances, and they've achieved that."

Raymond stared at him for a moment. "Jean-Paul, that's psychotic."

Jean-Paul didn't bother to deny this statement.

Raymond inhaled and exhaled very slowly for several moments, as if drawing upon the last remaining dregs of his patience, then spoke. "Just give this school a chance, all right, Jean-Paul?" Raymond asked him sincerely.

"I'm not making any promises," Jean-Paul responded stiffly.

Raymond removed his sunglasses, folded them, and placed them in the breast pocket of his gray Hugo Boss suit jacket. "Good enough. Let's go and meet your new administration."

They stepped out of the Lexus into the warm late September air. The sun was bright, and Jean-Paul narrowed his eyes in a futile attempt to block out the worst of the sun's rays.

A woman waited to greet them on the front steps. "Welcome," she said with a friendly smile that could have been in a toothpaste commercial. She was beautiful, refined and elegant with dark skin, brilliant light blue eyes, and long, sleek snow white hair. The navy blue suit she wore had been immaculately fitted to her slim and statuesque body, her entire demeanor professional. "I am Ororo Munroe, Deputy Headmistress of the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning. I am delighted to have you." She spoke in a regal yet calm tone.

"Raymond Belmonde, proxy guardian of Jean-Paul Martin." The two shook hands.

"I'm afraid that the headmaster himself, Professor Xavier, is away on a sabbatical at the moment, so he is not able to be here himself," Ms. Munroe said. "However, that will not impede the registration process at all."

A sabbatical? Jean-Paul's eyebrows rose, and Raymond sent him a warning look to quell any sarcastic comments.

"I expect there will be extensive paperwork," Raymond replied good-naturedly. "Shall we get started?"

"I'll show to my office," Ms. Munroe said. "We can go over the paperwork and the finer details there." She looked at Jean-Paul. "Why don't you explore the grounds, get a sense of where you'll be staying?"

"You should do that, Jean-Paul," Raymond agreed. "Take a walk around, get to know the place."

"Sure," Jean-Paul said unenthusiastically, turning to walk down the steps. As typical adults, they had already decided his actions for him, but then disguised it as a suggestion, as if it was still his choice. They were pretending to give power to him that they had already taken away. These facades were typical for him to encounter with authority figures, and he found that the more it occurred, the greater amount of exasperation he experienced each time.

Ms. Munroe and Raymond walked into the school, opening one of the immense oak doors and letting it shut behind them, already discussing one matter or another.

That was his cue to start walking. Jean-Paul smiled ironically as he strode to a set-stone walkway in a space between the hedges. When he started along the path, he was amused to see that it was again lined with neat rows of flowers, as if actively trying to combat his dark mood. He walked for several yards, seeing no one else, and hearing nothing but birdsong.

The path wound around a few clumps of trees, eventually taking him to an elaborately arranged flower garden, with a trail of stepping stones leading to a large pond in the center. Someone obviously cared for this place; there were no weeds to be found, and none of the plants had dead flowers or stalks.

Out of boredom more than anything else, Jean-Paul followed the stepping stones to the pond, which had a thin circle of gravel looping around it, obviously painstakingly measured to be kept even throughout the pond's perimeter. Absently, he grabbed one of the larger stones off the ground, tossing it up and down in the palm of his hand. The pond had been meticulously cleaned; there was no algae that he could see, and the surface was so reflective that he could see his own image.

A teenage boy dressed in all black, a pale complexion, and black hair. Athletically thin, with lean muscles. Good-looking. Something weird with his eyes, though. Alive and bright in a dead face.

Much too familiar.

Every time he looked into a mirror, at a photograph, or just saw himself in some way, he was looking at _her_.

Jeanne-Marie.

Despite only being fraternal twins, they had the same face, and every day, when Jean-Paul saw himself, it was a unavoidable reminder that she was gone. Vanished, without a trace, the only evidence indicating that she had left on her own accord.

It got old really fast.

Sometimes, he hated her. He hated her for being able to break free of the modeling industry when they were eight years old, leaving him to work demanding hours throughout his childhood, barely ever catching a break. He hated that she had a mental disorder that robbed their parents' attention from him, focusing all of it on her, causing them to coddle and fawn over her, making her their favorite.

Jean-Baptiste and Melisande Beaubier loved playing power games with their children, showing one how much they were disliked by blatantly favoring the one of the others, sometimes Jean-Paul's older brother or sister, but mostly Jeanne-Marie. He himself had never been the one to be favored. He occasionally wondered if this twisted pastime merely amused his parents to watch their children go for each other's throats or if they were engineering some sort of contest with a definite reward at the end. Most of the time, though, he just accepted it for what it was: his parents' cruel form of entertainment, which they enjoyed because it meant they could control their children.

Jean-Paul glanced up at the clear blue sky, scowling. He had never hated Jeanne-Marie before she had left, but now that she was gone, it all he felt towards her, as if she was only an inconvenience now. He questioned if this feeling had been latent and only emerged after she had left, or if it had formed in the wake of her abrupt thoughtless departure.

When people were born into the world, they were alone. Ultimately, at the end their lives, they died alone.

But he hadn't been alone. He had been born alongside Jeanne-Marie.

What did it mean? Was he expected to die alongside her? Would they die together, spend the last few seconds of their lives with someone else who shared their fate?

He didn't know the answer, and that disturbed him.

Gazing down at his reflection in the pond, a bitter taste polluted his mouth, and he felt ill. Jean-Paul pitched the piece of gravel at the image of his face, turning and walking away before he could watch the water ripple. He was sick of carrying Jeanne-Marie's face with him wherever he went.

Continuing along the main path, he stopped for a moment to repose in the shade of a small grove trees, standing right next to the base of a massive, twisted cedar tree to evade any sunlight whatsoever, regretting his habit of wearing all black clothing nearly every day.

Laughter rang out suddenly, and Jean-Paul saw four figures, about thirty yards away from the apex of the slope on which he stood, running and tossing a pastel-colored frisbee about on the previously deserted grounds. Although the distance made it difficult to judge, Jean-Paul could tell they were teenagers, and presumed they were more or less his age. Because the surrounding area was so quiet, he was able clearly hear each word they spoke.

"Over here, Bobby!" Called one girl.

"Right at you, Kitty!" The boy who was evidently named "Bobby" spun the frisbee toward her.

The plastic disk was too high in the air for her to reach, and she fell backward when she tried to jump to catch it. This stunt looked so ridiculous that the other girl, with spiky black hair and a bright yellow shirt, let out a whoop of laughter, and even Jean-Paul suppressed a smile.

Brushing herself off, the girl named "Kitty" stood, and hurled the frisbee at the fourth member of their party, a towering muscular youth.

"Thank you, Kitty," he said, in a deep voice intoned with a Russian accent.

The sight of their laughter and games startled Jean-Paul. Only a week ago, he had been playing lacrosse for his school, as he always did in the fall, just like he swam on the school team in the summer, participated in water polo in the winter, and soccer in the spring. While he had played games of football and soccer for entertainment with his friends when they had spare time at their boarding school, after Jeanne-Marie had left and his car "accident", he had lost his competitive spark for sports. Watching the group of students now felt strange, almost foreign.

After a few minutes of spectating their fun, and seeing none of them so much as glance in his direction, Jean-Paul realized that he must have been all but invisible, dressed completely in black, standing in the deepest shadows of a giant tree upon a slope. A sudden feeling overwhelmed him, that he was a dismal intruder to the peaceful world of the happy youths.

It was then that Jean-Paul knew. Mutant or not, he wasn't one of them. He didn't belong here, at this school. The scene before him told him all he needed to know: he was different, changed from being a carefree teen like them into . . . something _else_, something he wasn't quite sure he liked.

And he couldn't go back to being the way he was before: the popular athlete who had been one of the most well-liked students at St. Tom's. That person was gone, just as much as Jeanne-Marie, and wouldn't return. No matter how much Jean-Paul wanted him to, no matter how much he wanted his life to return to normalcy, it wouldn't, and it was of little use to wish it could. The situation at hand was out of his control, beyond his reach.

So he was a mutant. A member of despised race for their abnormalities and potential to be dangerous.

But at last, there was something solid to differentiate himself from Jeanne-Marie. A trait that would separate them forever, if she hadn't already done that herself.

She had left, and burden of her departure rested upon Jean-Paul's shoulders, but now, maybe with this fresh start, he could let go of her.

After all, she had so readily let go of him.

She had left him to die alone.

Jean-Paul turned, and began walking away from the other teens with their laughter and fun, moving away from them like a dark grim shadow, gazing flatly around at his new school. He wandered for what seemed like an eternity to him, until he came across one of the students he had spotted earlier. The boy the girl named "Kitty" had referred to as "Bobby".

The other teen saw him as well, and his eyebrows rose in consternation. They were walking toward each other, and the distance between them was rapidly closing.

"Hey, you a new student here?" Bobby asked him, meeting his eyes; his gaze was a warm brown, surprisingly friendly.

Jean-Paul stopped in front of him, staunchly unimpressed by his demeanor, which was suggestive of a future frat boy, judging by his Abercrombie & Fitch-esque clothing and entitled attitude. "Is that significant in any way?" His tone emerged angrier than he had intended.

Bobby seemed offended by his response. "Well, yeah, I was just wondering- "

"Actually, ignore that," Jean-Paul said. The sun beat down on him mercilessly, and he was in no mood to deal with the paradigm of white male privilege. "I've just remembered: I don't care. Let's just both move along. I don't to waste my time with a second-class citizen." Good Lord, did he really just say that? He had never made a classist remark before in his life. Where had that come from?

"What the hell did you just call me?" Bobby was angry. Jean-Paul was all too aware that he had already sealed his fate for an unnecessarily difficult start at this school for mutants, but his pride refused to allow him to retract his remarks.

So he summoned all his negativity into an expression of the utmost derision, sending all of his contempt for this school, his parents, and his entire situation in Bobby's direction. He sauntered forward, moving closer to Bobby, planning to move around him.

"What's wrong with you?" Bobby sounded angry, and Jean-Paul was aware that he was at a disadvantage, but Bobby didn't know that. Taller and more robust than him, Bobby could possibly take him in a physical fight. Also, he didn't know what Bobby's mutant abilities entailed, but Bobby didn't know Jean-Paul's, either. Furthermore, the fact that Bobby hadn't yet whipped out claws or laser beams indicated that his mutation might not have been well-suited for combat.

In the end, nothing happened between the two of them. Though the tension hung in the air, Jean-Paul merely settled for feinting toward Bobby as if to strike a blow but pulled away at the last minute, letting the other mutant know he didn't think him worth the trouble. Still, as Bobby stood where he was and Jean-Paul moved past him, he could tell that the other was also aware of the unresolved chemistry between them.

But in Jean-Paul's mind, settling the chemistry wasn't worth his energy. His life had changed, and he was just going to have to accept that. He wasn't meant to be the big man on campus, laughing and partying with his friends. The encounter involving him and this "Bobby" wasn't destined to be resolved, either. Fate had decided for him. Jeanne-Marie's departure indicated all he needed to know: he was fated to die alone, without resolving his conflicts, without achieving a fulfilling life.

* * *

**A/N:** My God, J.P., develop a more defeatist attitude, why don't you? Oh, well, he'll improve. Eventually.

This story was a companion to "Speechless", which is one of my fics that details the various interactions between Bobby and J.P. For more stories about Jean-Paul, check out my fic "What Could Go Wrong?", where he is a main character.

I also plan to write more about J.P. and Bobby. Let me know if you have any ideas.

Raymond Belmonde was Jean-Paul's adoptive father from the comics, and here he's basically a substitute for Jean-Paul's parents.


	2. Five

5.

* * *

The morning of his first official day at the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning, Jean-Paul did his best to suppress any emotion whatsoever.

He didn't want to brood everything he had lost. St. Tom's had been his school since he started in the Son Center in the third grade. When he entered seventh grade, his class had moved on the Father Building, which held the middle school grades. If he had stayed to go on to sophomore year, he would've spent that time in the high school division, the Holy Spirit Hall.

Before modeling had overtaken his life and metaphorically destroyed whatever soul he might have once possessed, Jean-Paul had been a talented athlete on various sports teams, top of his class in academics, and an all-around well-known and popular figure on the campus with many friends. A zest for life ruled his personality; each day had been another opportunity to add to his various achievements and show others how superior he was to them.

All of that was just memories now.

The Xavier Institute for mutants didn't seem too terrible; his roommate was a German named Kurt who was several years older than him and very friendly and helpful despite his blue, furry body and vaguely demonic facial features. However, Jean-Paul wanted nothing else but to feel miserable and brood over his current situation, and was content to mope about his dorm room for the evening.

He deliberately arrived late to breakfast to avoid gawking students, entering the dining hall only to snatch a bagel, barely managing to swallow the last bite before the bell. The taste of the breakfast pastry felt odd and foreign in his mouth, and he only convinced himself to eat the entire thing by rationalizing that he required energy for his fist day.

As he strode into his first class of the day and spoke to Ms. Munroe, he felt as if another person was controlling his actions, speaking and moving for him. Like a robot with a fixed programming, he did was expected of him. There was a quiz in class that day, and which he was not obligated to do, because it was his first day. But what the hell, why not? It wasn't as if he had anything else to do.

When he accepted the quiz that Ms. Munroe handed out to class, Jean-Paul's lip curled in disgust. The content of the quiz was battles of the Civil War, and the essay questions were as basic as what he would expect to see in a public school exam.

"How did Pickett's Charge effect the Battle of Gettysburg?" "Why was the Third Battle of Chattanooga the turning of the Civil War?" Were these questions supposed to be challenging in any sort of way? Jean-Paul remembered most of the details from his Civil War report for school he had written the previous spring; this quiz incredibly simplistic for a supposed test of students' abilities.

But as Jean-Paul surrepptiously glanced around at his classmates, he noticed that most of them seemed to find the quiz difficult. An Asian-American girl wearing a canary yellow jacket was tapping her pen against the desk, as if she was trying to remember the answers, while the boy sitting beside him had yet to start writing.

Jean-Paul sneered. Xavier Institute for High Learning of _what_, precisely? Basket-weaving? This would have been an effortless quiz at St. Tom's, and though the Xavier Institute was merely a haven for mutants disguised as a school for the gifted, surely the students were somewhat intelligent and could retain basic information. Right?

Jean-Paul had a feeling that if his fellow students were this moronic, then the Xavier Institute held nothing but loneliness and a generally miserable existence for him throughout the duration of his high school career.

The uncomfortable sensation of someone gazing intently at him prickled the back of his neck, and Jean-Paul glanced up to find that the boy sitting next to him was staring in his direction. Or more accurately, at his quiz paper. Jean-Paul realized belatedly that it was Bobby, the future frat boy, whom he had insulted yesterday.

If Jean-Paul had more energy, he would've hissed a scathing insult at Bobby and deliberately provoke him. But he was completely apathetic to actually displaying an interest in any activity, even if it only was irritating some plebeian.

Thus, he only sent a glacial look at Bobby, directly meeting his eyes, flipped over his paper and ensconced himself in his disagreeable plastic chair.

If he had been at St. Tom's, he never would have deigned to settle for only a cold glance and nothing else. He would've sent a clear message to Bobby about his general personality and capability for wrathfulness. But he had to keep cool; he had to maintain his cold demeanor and not allow any of this to affect him too deeply.

His jaw ached from clenching his teeth, and Jean-Paul knew that this was useless, his carefully constructed world was slowly unraveling, exposing him, leaving his open for attack.

He was just a shell, now, Jean-Paul decided, slouching down in his awkward chair. The transition to the Xavier Institute had reduced him to nothing more than a shell of his former self.

* * *

**Author's Note:** This story entails five times Jean-Paul could've spoken to Bobby Drake, and the one time he did.

I've decided to make this an ongoing story that parallels "Speechless", basically telling everything from Jean-Paul's point of view.

Right now, of J.P.'s emotions are kind of understated; he's still shellshocked by everything that's happened. But don't worry, he's going to show some emotion soon. But tell if at any point in the story Jean-Paul looks like a Gary-Stu; that's not how I want to characterize him at all.

Let me know what you think. Reviews and concrit are great.


	3. Four

4.

* * *

Jean-Paul was truly surprised when he actually managed to obtain several friends at the Xavier Institute.

They always hung out in a group together, rarely ever straying from one another. The teens were very tight, almost cliquish, and they didn't think very much about the other students at the Xavier Institute.

There was Manuel de la Rocha, who was arrogant, handsome, and came from a very wealthy family and as a result was somewhat classist and narcissistic; the manipulative, stunning Regan Wyngarde, a debutante with a personality of both cunning and deviousness; the demanding Amara Aquilla, who thought that her beauty should automatically convince others to cater to her every desire; the enigmatic Amazonian beauty that was Anna Marie, just as often referred to as "Rogue" and nearly always silent; and wild card Saint-John Allerdyce, a dedicated fan of risk-taking and adrenaline rushes, who seemed to be the only one of them who was half-way friendly to any other students at the Xavier Institute.

All came from old money except for Saint-John, whose parents were still fairly well-off. They welcomed Jean-Paul and his high social standing into their little gang and taught him about everyone at the school: the insipid Kitty Pryde, the ignorant Bobby Drake, the annoying Jubilee, and others they disliked. They made their preferences and aversions his; he became a valiant warrior in their continuous battle against the school's authority. The only teacher they seemed to be fond of was the cold Emma Forst, ice queen extraordinaire.

With these friends, who despite their snobbery were always pleasant to him, Jean-Paul slowly could feel himself regaining some of his former vitality. The process was gradual and sporadic, but their acceptance of him began to painstakingly unearth the emotions he had buried beneath the shock of the events that had recently occurred in his life. He wasn't sure how much he liked this reversion and attempted to merely be a reflection of his friends' will, without a personality to call his own, but that didn't work very well. He was still slowly transforming from a statue back into a person.

And though they might not have been the most wholesome group of friends he could find, they were the only people at the Institute who had reached out to him to legitimately include him, rather than a brief period of distant, cursory friendliness, which was how most of the other students had reacted to him.

Life with his modeling "career" continued: about once a month, Raymond would arrive in his Lexus to bring Jean-Paul to the Argent studio in New York City, and Jean-Paul would spend the weekend in his one of his parents' many exorbitant and luxurious apartments scattered around the country.

On several occasions, though, Jean-Paul would awake to find his limbs aching and sore. When he would check, he would find various bruises all over his body, and he could never recall the impetus for the lesions. Whenever this happened, it was always a strange turn of affairs. To add to the oddity of this situation, the bruises were unaffected by his healing factor and remained for several days. The reoccurring abrasions instigated an odd feeling of foreboding in the pit of his stomach, but he mostly ignored them.

Others noticed these angry marks, too. He once caught Bobby Drake staring at him in the locker room, his gazed fixed upon the bruise spread over Jean-Paul's torso. However, when he realized that Jean-Paul was aware of his eyes, he sheepishly looked away. Jean-Paul honestly didn't care about Drake's opinion; the other teen had made no attempt to speak to him since their initial encounter, and Jean-Paul could not say that the silence between them bothered him, not in the slightest.

For the most, though, the Xavier Institute was not beneficial or detrimental for Jean-Paul's health. The school for mutants just simply _was_.


	4. Three

3.

* * *

Rumors wove throughout the student body about Jean-Paul's relationship with Manuel de la Rocha. For his part, Jean-Paul didn't really care about what his classmates were saying. They definitely weren't his friends or anyone else significant in his life, so he saw no reason to waste his energy on them.

Manuel was an interesting individual. Like Jean-Paul, he had attended American boarding schools for the majority of his childhood, before his parents became aware of his mutation and shipped him off to the Xavier Institute.

While his family was from Spain and he frequently returned to visit his relatives there, Manuel and his parents lived in Northern California, on a beautiful estate, of which Manuel was quite fond. He often showed Jean-Paul pictures of his favorite places in California, including the Sierra Nevada Mountains, Sequoia National Park, the city of San Jose, and Angel Island.

Though Manuel was considerably haughtier than Jean-Paul, at the same time, he was more sincere. He seemed to value Jean-Paul as a friend due to their similar thus relatable backgrounds, but Jean-Paul wasn't certain that Manuel was especially important to him. Perhaps he didn't want him to be. Whatever the case, he was loath to admit any influence Manuel had over him.

And yet despite Jean-Paul's reluctance to identify with him, Manuel appeared to genuinely enjoy his friendship and was so enamored with him that Saint-John began joking about setting a wedding date.

Though Saint-John was odd one out in this case, he seemed to be sincerely amused by the situation and often hung out with his other friends if he became bored with inferring a relationship between Manuel and Jean-Paul. He wasn't the only one to make such comments, but he was the only one to do it in harmless jest; Jubilee frequently directed derisive remarks about Manuel to Jean-Paul's face.

Both Manuel and Regan Wyngarde possessed mutations that allowed them into the hearts of others. Manuel could sense others' emotions, and if the sensation was strong enough, could be affected by the feeling as well. A telepath with little training, Regan often went through her day listening to everyone else's thoughts, setting her on edge. Jean-Paul repeatedly spent his evenings trying to calm one of them down in order to prevent a mental breakdown, most of the time, Manuel.

Though he was at a loss of how to help Regan, a method of correcting Manuel's problem occurred to him while enduring a thoroughly tedious English class. Manuel could control others' emotions, but often did not because it caused him undue hassle. But perhaps if he were to control just one person's emotions . . . if he were to just completely extinguish them . . .

Fundamentally, it was what they both wanted. Manuel had the control and satisfaction of ruling another's emotions, thus relieving some of his own tension, and Jean-Paul's discomfort at his gradually resurfacing feelings, which he longed to leave behind, was removed.

There was nothing but thought and logic. There was no emotion present within him as long as Manuel was by his side.

And yet, his total lack of emotion brought Manuel to become emotionally closer to him. Jean-Paul wasn't certain what to think of it, but Manuel's emotional control of his mind seemed to give the empath the idea that they were closer than regular friends.

The notion had basis, because after all, Jean-Paul had chosen to trust Manuel with his feelings. But those same feelings were in fact destroyed in order to allow Jean-Paul to disregard all emotion whatsoever and keep a clear mind. That was the ultimatum of Manuel's perceptions of their relationship: just an idea unfounded in truth.

But Jean-Paul didn't think that it was unpleasant that during his morning workouts in the gym, Manuel chose to spend the early hours with him when he could've been sleeping. And he went out of his way to teach Jean-Paul how to drive by pocketing the keys to one of the Institute's stock cars when no one was looking, then taking it out in the late afternoons on weekends. Furthermore, it was nice that someone was always supporting him and standing up for him, no matter how much the intervention was unnecessary or if Jean-Paul was obviously in the wrong.

The others in their clique neither ever commented on the legitimate nature of the relationship, nor did they deign to explain the odd friendship to classmates when pestered for details. But Jean-Paul couldn't ignore the pangs of paranoia that told him some of the other students already knew. That Bobby Drake seemed to be watching them at every opportunity now; could it be even a future pledge realized the true extent of their relationship? After that singular incident involving him and Manuel, Jean-Paul wouldn't be all too surprised . . .

The day hadn't proceeded well for either Manuel or Jean-Paul- the former due to an argument with his father and the latter due to a detention with Ms. Hunter for supposed "backtalk". The last straw for Manuel appeared in the form of future frat boy Bobby Drake, who shoved into Jean-Paul on the outdoor staircase that separated the upper and lower levels of the courtyard. When Bobby neglected to apologize, Manuel fulminated with outrage.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Manuel moved closer to Bobby, fury in his dark eyes; Jean-Paul did as well but only as a preemptive measure in case a fight broke out between the two brash young men. Jubilee and Piotr were sitting at a table a little ways away, so there would be witnesses to the actual turn of events if there were an altercation. And there was no chance in hell that Mr. Summers would take Manuel and Jean-Paul's word over that of his favorite students.

Drake's careless response only incensed Manuel further, his tone annoyed and words unrepentant. "What's wrong with you? Get over yourself; look, it was an accident."

Always an aristocrat, if there was anything Manuel did not appreciate, it was being told what to do. "You know, Drake, people like you are uppity cretins that need to be shown their true place." Manuel sent Bobby a nasty smile, stepping forward. "Under the boots of the people who own you, grinding you into the dirt for your insubordination."

For a moment, Jean-Paul briefly thought back to his first encounter with Bobby, and the manner in which the other's entitled attitude irked him, bringing him to make his own classist remarks.

Bobby remained staunchly unimpressed, returning his own insolent grin. "Bring it, you bastard."

Out of the corner of his eye, Jean-Paul noticed Mr. Summers emerge from the around the rear wall of the courtyard. Just as Manuel prepared to make a move, Jean-Paul swiftly interposed himself between them.

"Stop."

The words came out of his mouth flatly, like an order. As Manuel and Bobby both blinked in surprise at his commanding tone, Jean-Paul continued, undeterred, and addressed his close friend. "Manuel, I'm fine." He looked seriously at him. "You need to let this go."

Manuel frowned but took a few steps back from them.

Jean-Paul directed his next words at Bobby. "Just walk away from this." The advice turned cold and curt as it escaped his mouth, but Jean-Paul held Bobby's gaze unwaveringly.

A moment passed as they simply looked at each other, and for an instant, Bobby's mannerisms indicated that he was about to speak, and his eyes reflected unasked questions. But he withdrew from their company, turning his back on them and walking to his friends, as Jean-Paul watched him depart with disinterest and Manuel, with resentment.

* * *

**A/N:** It's so interesting to see the discrepancies in Bobby's version of the story and Jean-Paul's version of the story, isn't it? Oh, the unreliable narrator makes an appearance.

Confusion, crtique, complaint? Let me know.

Thank you to all my awesome reviewers! You rock!


	5. Two

**Warning: **This chapter contains a brief segway from sanity. Nothing graphic, just a lose grip on reality, but I'm not not sure how disturbing someone else would consider it.

* * *

2.

* * *

The entire frustrating debacle began with Ms. Hunter's dance class.

Jean-Paul abhorred the class and didn't think much of Ms. Hunter's personality. Unfortunately, because he was a late transfer, the regular sports gym class was already full to its capacity of students, and he was required to take a physical education class, thus his presence at the dance lessons as the only male in the room.

The feeling of distaste was apparently mutual between he and Ms. Hunter, because she constantly criticized him in a manner that she never displayed toward any of the girls, taking umbrage at his every action. According to her, he danced like a robot, sang like he was auto-tuned, had no stage energy, and possessed no theatricality (What the hell did that mean, anyway?).

And if he rolled his eyes or sighed after her barrage of complaints about him, like that one time she told him his voice sounded more robotic and artificial than Corey Monteith's singing in an early episode of_ Glee_, she called him out on his "bad attitude" in front of the entire class, verbally inferred ideas about him that he had never so much as implied, and assigned him detention if she was feeling particularly vindictive that day.

In Jean-Paul's opinion, not only was the teacher unprofessional and the class unlikeable, but it was also useless to him. Thoroughly convinced he was going to die young and soon, Jean-Paul did not see the point of dressing up in costume or sequins and performing a song and dance routine that would never again be germane to his life.

He wasn't planning on Broadway career, he had no interest in the performance arts, and he had only learned a few instruments when he was younger to appease his parents: the basics of guitar and piano and an in-depth study of the violin. Thus, one of his various reasons for his general negativity for the class was that the "skills" he was learning had no practical application to his life and were thus useless and a waste of his time.

He already spent a good portion of his life standing a platform surrounded by flashing cameras, being admired for his looks and absolutely nothing else; he didn't want to make the invidious process a daily routine.

All in all, that week had been especially horrendous, with Bobby Drake trash-talking him behind his back, spreading the knowledge of his previous teacher-student relationships throughout the school, Jubilee openly insulting him to his face while the teachers condoned her behavior by simply observing the situation instead of reprimanding her for the cruel comments, an argument with Raymond about the hectic modeling schedule, and to top it off, he was failing Spanish and falling behind in English because he rarely had the time and energy to make an effort on his homework.

When Jean-Paul walked into the auditorium that Thursday, he was feeling rather light-headed from staying up the past three nights from trying to learn enough Spanish to pass the next test. Additionally, he had been reading the Shakespeare assignment so that Jubilee wouldn't be able to avoid punishment when she referred to him as "a brainless beauty" in English class when he guessed the wrong answer to the question, to which Mr. Summers would disappointedly shake his head and call on the next person.

That morning had been disastrous: unable to find a freshly washed black T-Shirt, he had settled for his navy blue soccer shirt from St. Tom's. After spending his lunch outside roaming the forest behind the Institute in hope that the fresh air would clear his head, which had concluded with him stumbling, tumbling, and falling amongst large rocks and scraping his abdomen, causing the shirt to be stained with his blood from several long, surprisingly deep cuts. However, he resolved the situation by covering the sullied shirt with a black, nylon tracksuit sweatshirt, the zipper about halfway closed.

The bell rang, signaling the beginning of class, and Ms. Hunter called him up onstage for his prepared performance of "Misery" by Maroon 5.

"Get your back-up dancers onstage and perform your choreography routine," she ordered. "This performance will be graded."

The light-headed feeling was in full effect as he stood, deep pangs of hunger striking his stomach as outer thorns of pain from the scrapes on his stomach stabbed him. Jean-Paul was unable to recall the last time he had consumed any source of nourishment; the days had blended together due to his lack of repose to interspace the cycle of morning and night.

His sense of awareness was rampantly fluctuating between the two opposite ends of the spectrum; sometimes he felt half-asleep, at others, incredibly sensitive to every action occurring within the vicinity. Somehow he climbed onto the stage with his chorus, which consisted of Regan, Amara, Sally Belvins, Paige Guthrie, and Xi'an Coy Manh, but he couldn't recall when or how he had arrived at that point.

Once he was there, he was hyper cognizant of his every sense: he felt the warm blood trickling from his stomach onto the waistband of his designer jeans and wished he had thought to bandage the abrasion to eliminate the annoyance, heard the humming of the stage lights, could feel their intensity burning on to his skin, and so he tossed his sweatshirt aside. The light continued to glare down upon him, illuminating the area where he and his dancers stood but not past that, blinding him to any world beyond the stage.

"Begin," Ms. Hunter commanded.

A foreign thrill of exhilaration ran through Jean-Paul, and adrenaline surged in his veins, or perhaps it was merely his last vestiges of reality slipping away. Whatever it was, he was dizzy with excitement, the all too infrequent sensation of anticipation buzzing in his mind.

The music swelled, and the song, misleadingly upbeat considering the lyrics and title, seemed transport him to a separate world beyond Ms. Hunter and his classmates, where his fellow dancers were recurring visitors but not inhabitants. A hazy grasp on consciousness filled Jean-Paul's brain as he was overwhelmed by the sensation that he was phasing back and forth into reality, over and over again.

As he sang and danced on stage in perfect correlation with the back-up dancers, it was as if none of this was real, as if he was another part of the audience, sitting away from the action and silently observing.

As the apex of the song approached, he and the dancers remaining in a perfect synchronization of movement and energy, black spots splotched Jean-Paul's vision, and he was engulfed by the irrational fear that he was slowly bleeding out and the black was his rapidly approaching death. Time trickled to a crawl around him but then resumed faster than ever before, as his feet never paused in their dancing and his voice never halted whilst belting out the lyrics.

The realization dawned on him gradually. This energy coursing through him, the feeling of dizziness flooding his mind, was life. He was alive for once, and the sensation that he was floating away on a cloud was because his true self, his inner self, was escaping the confines of his physical cage. He was weightless, boneless, unreal, just a memory, just an idea.

The person performing the song was not Jean-Paul. The person was just an automaton following commands, no matter how brilliant his rendition of the song was, no matter how smoothly he danced, no matter the spirit layered into the lyrics that he sang flawlessly.

No, the true Jean-Paul was away but here, happy yet out of control, sane only within his own mind.

As he finished the song, delivering the conclusion with just as much talent and passion as displayed in the rest of his performance, Jean-Paul Beaubier was not a person. Oh, he had deceptively human qualities- at the moment, his mouth was dry and raw, there was blood splattering on the polished wood floor before him, which explained the lack of blood reaching his brain, and he had to keep blinking because his eyes were ready to slip out of their sockets. But in truth, he was the living, warm epitome of happiness. He finally felt excited and alive after so much time spent frozen in a bleak wasteland of nothingness.

An uncharacteristic smile brought on by the inexplicable, unbridled euphoria blazing within him forced the corners of his lips upward.

"I was perfect," he said with satisfaction, as the back-up dancers gasped and gawked at his blood-soaked shirt and hands. "I felt it. Perfect. It was perfect."

He was still conscious when he hit the floor, because he remembered the pain of his head knocking against the stage.

* * *

A blur of bright hospital lights and I.V.s later, Jean-Paul awoke in a large, unfamiliar bed in an immense, well-decorated room, the bureau of which had been filled with his clothes. Later, he would be slightly taken aback to discover he was still in New York: the land outside of his window looked like an area of the Scottish Highlands.

As fate would have it, Jean-Paul was at his older brother's dreary estate for the weekend, for a brief "vacation from stress", granted to him in that hopes that he could piece his metal health back together within the span of three days.

The place was rather dull, and there was often rain pouring from the sky. Jean-Paul amused himself by locating his brother's hobby shop: a garage crammed with classic older cars and fewer newer models, several of which were in the process of being restored. For the most part, he resisted the urge to tamper with any of them.

"Is some sort of plea for attention?" Lestat, Jean-Paul's brother, inquired that night at dinner. "I know that you don't enjoy modeling -"

"That's nothing to do with it," Jean-Paul replied moodily, lethargically stabbing his steak with a silver fork.

Lestat shared a heavy resemblance to Jean-Paul, and by extension, their father; the only truly notable difference was Lestat's overall healthier appearance, with no bloodless face or dark circles under his eyes, and he possessed the dark gray eyes of their father rather than Jean-Paul's odd orbs, which were bright blue with hints of gray.

Arching an eyebrow, Lestat continued down the path that Jean-Paul did not want to travel. "And about Jeanne-Marie- "

"Christ, it's always all about Jeanne-Marie, even when she's dead," Jean-Paul remarked.

Lestat went on as if his sentence had been uninterrupted. "I want you to see a therapist concerning her disappearance. Obviously, it traumatized you more than anyone in this family wants to admit."

"I don't care about her," Jean-Paul informed his brother coolly.

"Your school is always calling to tell Raymond and I the mental instability indicated by your actions there," Lestat said bluntly. "I'm sick of it. "You're getting a psychologist, whether you think you need it or not." He sipped his expensive wine, as if that settled the matter.

Annoyed by his older brother's presumption, the following day, Jean-Paul "borrowed" Lestat's 1975 Mustang Cobra II and drove it back to the Xavier Institute (he was tempted to go for a Corvette, but then he recalled that at least one of them was his father's car).

Manuel's driving lessons paid off, and Jean-Paul managed to return to the Xavier Institute without a single automobile accident or traffic ticket. He parked the car not in the garage, but in the front drive, planning to move it later. At the moment, he was beginning to feel a touch light-headed again.

Bobby, Jubilee, Piotr, and the other girl (Katie?) watched him as he strode to the front entrance, but Jean-Paul paid them no mind. He was already thinking of the argument about to erupt between himself and Mr. Summers.

As for Jeanne-Marie . . .

She was dead. As far as Jean-Paul was concerned, she had never existed in the first place.

* * *

**A/N:** Gee, Jean-Paul's performance is almost parallel to Natalie Portman's final dance in a 2010 Darren Aronofsky about ballet. I wonder which one it is?

Also, does anyone get the joke about Corey Monteith?

Reviews and constructive criticism are always greatly appreciated.


	6. One

**Warning: This chapter contains mentions of sexuality, drug usage, suggested prostitution, and intergenerational relationships.**

* * *

1.

* * *

The solution to the issue of his steadily lowering grade in Spanish appeared to him one afternoon when classes were finished, while he was attempting to convince Ms. Ghazikhanian to help him with his homework.

"I don't understand the assignment," he admitted, hating himself for expressing weakness as he did so. Bile rose in his at his confession of his fundamental worthlessness.

She arched an eyebrow. "What part of the assignment are you having trouble with?" Her tone was long-suffering, as if her patience was constantly being tried by students requesting supplementary aid with their schoolwork.

"Any of it," Jean-Paul replied, not allowing his self-loathing and frustration to slip into his voice.

Ms. Ghazikhanian scoffed. "Perhaps Jubilee has a point by saying you're all beauty and no brains."

Jean-Paul clenched his jaw to avoid biting down on his tongue in anger. So there it was. The teaching staff was fully aware of what Jubilee told him on a nearly-daily basis and still acted as if it was his own fault. Not that he had needed confirmation on that, but it remained disappointing all the same.

She continued. "Why don't you just ask Manuel de la Rocha for help?"

She had found his weak point. He was even less comfortable asking for help from a friend than an adult. True, Manuel had taught him how to drive, but he had offered and Jean-Paul had accepted. This would be much different; Jean-Paul would have to admit his own stupidity to someone who thought of him as an equal.

Well, that wasn't an option. She wasn't willing to help him with learning the language, which would led to him failing Spanish, unless . . .

Old habits died hard.

"You're right," Jean-Paul said, his voice all smooth layers of oil and honey. "I _am_ beautiful, but then, so are you." He smiled at her, politely, with just a hint of suggestion.

"How kind of you." She coyly returned the smile. "But I'm not sure how you can sit through my class each day and still claim that you haven't learned anything."

Frustration overwhelmed him, and he wanted to scream. The entire problem was that he was not present in her class to learn. Instead, he was off in New York City, being a whore for the camera while wearing some ridiculous, garish outfit. But he couldn't let on to how much her words irked him. "I'm sure that you would understand," he replied. "It's so distracting when my teacher is so gorgeous. How can I pay attention to Spanish when I have such a stunning woman to gaze upon?"

The lines were incredibly artificial, and he despised himself for voicing the lies and presenting himself as a sellout. But damned if she didn't suggest he met her in her room later that night for "studying", which he later found out consisted of her plying him with liquor and totally forgetting himself due to the alcohol. The cycle continued for several months, and his Spanish grade suddenly jumped to the top of the class.

The knowledge that he was basically selling his body to win a better grade disgusted him, but not quite as much as being a failure would have. And hell, it wasn't as if he hadn't done this twice before with other female teachers.

Annie, which was short for Georgiana, Ms. Ghazikhanian's first name, had plenty of advice for him. A former pharmacist, she kept around plenty of prescription painkillers, which she supplied to him with advice to "relax" and not to "stress out". He had no use for the drugs, he wasn't into that whole scene, but he tried them once when he was feeling especially exhausted after he had returned from a modeling excursion. The substances brought him a vaguely dizzy and distant sensation, as though he was wearing a pair of glasses that weren't matched to his prescription, and the world was blurry as a result.

Though he didn't discourage Annie from giving him the pills, he didn't consume any more after that one instance and simply stored the bottle under his dorm bed. However, when Annie gave him a second bottle, he forgot to hide it away, simply tossing it in his backpack. While hanging out with Regan and Manuel, the former started to dig through his backpack for a Sharpie and happened upon the bottle.

"What are these?" She asked, her plucked blonde eyebrows furrowed.

"OxyContin," Manuel replied for him, reaching out and removing the bottle from Regan's immaculately manicured hand and examining it for himself. "What are you doing with this?" He questioned, looking at Jean-Paul.

"I get them from Ms. Ghazikhanian," Jean-Paul replied smoothly. "I have a another bottle in my dorm." An idea occurred to him: the narcotics might be able to help Regan and Manuel suppress the constant barrage of thought and emotion, respectively, that they received from everyone else at school. Recalling how Manuel selflessly aided him in suppressing his unwanted emotions, Jean-Paul thought it was the least he could do in return and offered the drugs to them. "You want them?"

"Definitely." Regan affirmed.

Manuel tucked the bottle away. "Do you think Ms. Ghazikhanian could sell us anything else?"

"I don't know," Jean-Paul responded honestly. "You could ask her, I guess."

Presumably, they did, and Annie supplied them with any sort of painkiller imaginable, as long as they paid the right price. And while Jean-Paul wasn't fond of the drugs, he saw no reason to discourage his friends; some of the models he had encountered in the fashion industry popped stimulants like sugar-free candy.

He wasn't aware that any of his friends knew about the actual relationship between the teacher and himself, but Rogue singularly proved him wrong.

"None of it's worth what you're doing," she stated flatly in her usual detached tone as they worked together in Ms. Munroe's garden as a detention for ditching a field trip in favor of roaming throughout New York City.

"What are you talking about?" Jean-Paul questioned in legitimate surprise.

She gazed at him, her green eyes cold as a river frozen in the midst of its flood. "Being with her. Jubilee and Kitty tell me all the time to find a boyfriend. I don't care for people in particular, so a significant other would be practically worthless to me, just another annoyance to consume my time and space. Those two act as if I'm not worth anything without a strong male shoulder to lean upon, and as a result, they're constantly trying to get me to hook up with Remy or Bobby, though I barely speak to either of them. In the end, I totally disregard them all, because I know that I prefer myself to anyone else. I don't need a romantic relatiohsip, with a man or woman, to validate my existence." She glanced in the direction of the school. "But you think the way they do. You think that you're worthless if someone isn't admiring you for your looks."

"That's not true," Jean-Paul objected. "I'm only sleeping with Ms. Ghazikhanian to get a better grade, not for my self-esteem."

Rogue shook her head. "You're depending upon someone else to boost your own perceptions of yourself. I can see why you do it; this way, you know that you're so hot that even a woman in her late twenties would want you, and she raises your grade so you don't have to hate yourself for failing. You prove that you're beautiful, but at the same time, you prove that you have something else besides beauty: you seem like you have intelligence if you're not discovered, but if you are, you show that you have the audacity and cunning to sleep with a teacher."

Jean-Paul hadn't even known that Rogue was aware that he was failing the class and was startled into silence by the usually dispassionate girl's in-depth analysis of his actions and motives.

Rogue sighed. "When I discovered my mutation, I was at a fancy boarding school because neither of my parents had time to raise me and so they paid someone else to act like my parents because they had the money to do so. When I realized what I could do, I would touch the skin of another girl whose talents I wanted for myself, so I could always be the best. I was on the track team, and before the races, I would just take a little bit of another girl's psyche for myself, so I could win the meet."

She studied him seriously. "And I learned that if I wasn't satisfied with myself without winning that single race, I would never be satisfied if I won that single race. And then I began cheating in every aspect of my life to impress others." She returned to clipping the hedges. "And now, I don't think people should worry so much about what others think of them. I think they should concentrate on what they think of themselves."

Jean-Paul ignored any epiphany that might have occurred at that moment thanks to Rogue's narrative and resumed his raking. Rogue did not push the topic and went on clipping the hedges, and Jean-Paul questioned the prudence of the person who had permitted the eerie girl to manage the large, shiny metal blades.

For a few months, life proceeded in its usual routine, though one day Bobby Drake disquieted Annie and Jean-Paul by interrupting one of their rendezvous, stumbling upon them when he lumbered into the classroom one day after school, no doubt looking for a possession he was careless enough to have lost. While Jean-Paul was sure the future frat boy wasn't sufficiently intelligent to deduce what he had interrupted, Drake was not so backwards that he wasn't totally unaware he had barged in on a meeting of some sort. But Jean-Paul dismissed his concerns; whatever happened happened, and who was he to fight fate?

Not that he cared very much, but Annie seemed to think their relationship was more than just a casual affair, as validated by one night when she drove Jean-Paul to a luxurious restaurant so they could have dinner together. Coincidentally, Mr. Summers and Ms. Frost were dining there and spotted them, which instantly raised their suspicions, leading Ms. Frost to page through his mind and discover everything.

In conclusion, Annie was fired and departed from the Xavier Institute in disgrace. Manuel and Regan were expelled for drug use along with numerous other disciplinary issues. The process of their expulsion occurred behind closed doors and in the dark of the night: their presence at the school continued as usual until they were gone one morning. Jean-Paul was sentenced to a psychiatric evaluation.

But hell, he still got an "**A**" in Spanish on his report card, thus fulfilling his ambitions. And that was what truly mattered in life, after all: climbing to the top, no matter how many people you had to crush to get there.

* * *

**A/N:** I was slightly disappointed to see that no one reviewed my last chapter; that was one of my favorites to write and I wish someone else would've shared their thoughts with me. But _c'est la vie_, I suppose.

Let me know what you think about this chapter. And notice, in comparison to "Speechless", Jean-Paul doesn't pay the same amount of attention to Bobby that Bobby does to him . . . what could this mean?

And Jean-Paul is intended to seem messed up here. He's not meant to be the pillar of morals, or even rationality, for that matter.


	7. Zero

A few weeks after the Annie fiasco, Mr. Logan returned from wherever he went off to on his motorcycle and teamed up with Ms. Munroe to situate a training exercise for the students in Jean-Paul's class and above. This "training exercise" consisted of dropping them off in the middle of nowhere, not even the wilderness, and expecting them to find their way to "Headquarters".

In the same odd way Bobby continued to unexpectedly and presumably, unintentionally, pop up in Jean-Paul's life, the two of them wound up as partners for the session, an occurrence about which neither were quite enthused.

Bobby, of course, spent his time complaining, but seemed bewildered all the same when he consistently tripped over tree roots due to his inattention to everything besides his own misery. Jean-Paul rolled his eyes with each stumble, grateful the Bobby would be unable to see his unique gaze in the dark of the night, and remained serene even as Bobby lurched about and spewed curses.

He knew that Bobby couldn't help his own klutziness, after all, not everyone was as smooth and swift as himself, but it was almost comedic the way Bobby could barely take a step without losing his balance. This arduous process was beginning to exasperate him, and Bobby offered no sort of apology for his inconvenience.

Eventually, as Bobby did a face plant onto the ground yet again, he appeared to have had enough. "This is so stupid!" He yowled.

Jean-Paul didn't particularly care for the present company, but he decided to indulge him anyhow. Well, indulge himself really, because he couldn't resist the temptation to attempt to confound Bobby when he presented himself as such an easy target.

"What's stupid?" He coldly drawled, taking inward delight at the opportunity to prove his superiority. "The fact that we're wandering through some Godforsaken grassland in the middle of the night as a training exercise, or the fact that we're wandering through some Godforsaken grassland in the middle of the night as a training exercise in order to become soldiers of a private paramilitary organization?"

To be honest, he didn't expect any response; Bobby had ignored him in the past, not speaking to him at any time in or outside of the classroom, and Jean-Paul didn't see why his attitude would change now.

Several moments passed, but then Bobby spoke; Jean-Paul was slightly startled that the other teenager addressed him, delayed reaction or not.

"The first one," Bobby said, his tone griping. "I mean, what is this supposed to teach?"

This game had lost its fun now that Bobby had begun playing along.

Bored now, Jean-Paul brought the conversation to a close. He didn't especially desire a profound conversation with Drake, so he supplied a brief response in hopes of Drake returning to thinking about himself: "Possibly, survival in unfamiliar environments."

He should have known that an upper-middle-class white male like Bobby Drake never would be satisfied.

"Yeah, but- " he started, but Jean-Paul was done listening to him.

"Allow me to clarify something for you, Drake," Jean-Paul responded brusquely. "I wasn't attempting to engage you in an argument or debate. I was simply responding to your question."

He was tired and reminded of why he rarely spoke to Bobby Drake.

_Please, let that just be the end of it_, he prayed as they continued into the darkness.

But of course, Bobby could never keep his mouth shut for very long.

"Are you sure we're going in the right direction?" He questioned after a regrettably short silence.

Not appreciating the doubt Bobby cast upon his competence, Jean-Paul simply shone his flashlight onto a trailmark designated by their teachers, allowing the sign to speak for him.

"Oh, yeah," Bobby said, his voice a tad embarrassed.

_Good_, Jean-Paul thought ungenerously. _He _should_ be ashamed for insinuating I'm unintelligent_.

Their trek had taken them through a cornfield, and now they left that area behind to move onto a series of towering tree groves. At last, Bobby seemed to have realized that Jean-Paul didn't want to converse with him.

_Finally_. Jean-Paul closed his eyes, enjoying the peace of the black night. There were no worries here about his looks, no undue attention over his appearance, no insecurities that he would fail to meet expectations, only the quiet of-

"Why did you do it?" Bobby's unnecessarily loud voice demanded.

Jean-Paul suppressed the urge to turn and punch Bobby in the face for interrupting his infrequent moment of contentment. "Do _what_?" He asked pointedly in return, his voice none too pleasant.

"That thing with Ms. Ghazikhanian." Bobby replied flippantly.

If there was one topic Jean-Paul didn't feel like discussing at the moment, it was Annie Ghazikhanian. Or his family, but hopefully, that would remain irrelevant. Jean-Paul would just have to let Bobby know that this wasn't a theme he preferred to explore.

"Does it matter?" Bobby was getting beneath his skin; he could feel himself growing tenser with each passing second. "What's done is done. Would you and everyone else mind just allowing me move on with my life?"

There, that should get the message to Bobby that Jean-Paul didn't want to confabulate his sordid affair with a teacher. He would have to be incredibly dense not to get the hint.

"Well, I guess people don't want to let it go because they're shocked at how idiotic it was for you to do that." Bobby just wasn't willing to drop the topic. "Seriously, what the hell were you doing, sleeping with a teacher for a grade?"

Forget being dense, Bobby was just apparently an enormous jackass.

Jean-Paul gritted his teeth. "I don't want to offend you, but I really don't care about anything you have to say."

"Oh, no, don't worry about offending me at all." Bobby evidently didn't see the blatant hypocrisy of continuously offending someone, yet then becoming upset that someone was offending him in the process of trying to stop him from being offensive. But then again, those who didn't appreciate their views being undermined by pharisaism could consider Bobby's very existence offensive.

But Bobby's next words brought Jean-Paul's world to a complete standstill.

"God, is everyone in your family so much fun? Is that why you go to see them so often? I totally can't imagine why your sister ran away."

Jesus Christ, was nothing sacred? Did Bobby really have to stoop to low to manage a cutting barb? Enough was enough: Jean-Paul was through listening to Bobby's utter verbal moonshine.

"Drake," he said, surprising himself with his own low voice, even if it did retain a similar self-assured calm to that of an accomplished serial killer, "my sister is not a subject that is up for discussion."

_Just let this die._ The mantra he mentally chanted was aimed at fate itself rather than the meddling Bobby Drake, whom he would never deign to beg for anything, not even a display of sanity. _Just like everything else good in my life._

The maxim seemed to achieve a definitive silence between them both, and Jean-Paul condescended to plead with all divine deities in existence to allow the rest of their journey to remain that way.

Alas.

"Were you and your twin sister alike?"

Jean-Paul's first instinct was to reach out and throttle his assigned companion for shattering the silence yet again, but his rage dissipated as the query registered.

_Were you and your twin sister alike?_

The irritation and tension flowed out of him, despair and weariness filling the vacancies the departure of his anger had created.

Despite his mutation, despite Jeanne-Marie's absence, he still could not escape his identity as a twin.

He wanted so much more than to merely be designated as looking like someone else; he hated labels, and he didn't wanted to be boxed in by a single tag lazily attributed to him by someone who didn't know anything beyond his surface personality.

Hell, Jeanne-Marie was dead, and even now she was still the only reason Bobby was persisting in conversation with him.

_Were you and your twin sister . . ._

Could not he live by his own means and die without Jeanne-Marie there? Would he ever be permitted his individuality?

Was he not enough as himself; did there have to be another to compensate for his failings? Had he neglected to accomplish all that he required and was now forced to amend for his shortcomings by re-incorporating Jeanne-Marie into his life?

He knew that they were family, but for God's sake, would he always have to share his life with her?

_Were you and your . . ._

Considering that he was at a school at which Jeanne-Marie had never so much as appeared, yet his selfhood was being discarded for the duality of twins, the prospect of his own identity without involving his sister didn't seem likely.

Perhaps he was bitter to continue to resent his sister, but he was his own person. He didn't want to have to be confined by labels and the expectations of others, though he sometimes had no choice.

Jeanne-Marie was gone. She had vanished because she was completely selfish and unable to function, even in the banality of her own mundane life.

_Were you . . ._

But he would continue. Jean-Paul would go on, because he always beat the odds, even when he had barely a chance for survival. Like that time with the car crash and the sleeping pills, for example. And what didn't kill him would only make him stronger.

He met Bobby's expectant stare readily, his own gaze coolly confident and assertive. He just looked at him for a moment, allowing his composed demeanor to radiate aplomb and spoke. "We're more different than you could possibly imagine."

His voice exited his throat a faintly threatening rasp that was more hostile than poised. Also, he sounded as if he had just finished off a pack of cigarettes.

Bobby stared at him very intensely for several minutes longer, which seemed to stretch on for hours. Jean-Paul was taken aback by his bold, if impolite, sudden interest.

Then, out of the blue, he extended a hand to Jean-Paul.

Jean-Paul stared as well, but his gaze was questioning rather than intrigued. But he was too shaken to think properly; startled and uncertain, he adamantly shook his head before considering his actions and moved on, proceeding with the hike.

The moon emerged from behind the clouds and shone down upon him, but Jean-Paul couldn't ignore the feeling that he was farther away than ever from receiving the heavens' approval.

* * *

**A/N:** I was looking back over "Speechless" and this story, and it seems from the interaction that stories could either be a rocky friendship between Bobby and Jean-Paul, or actual slash/pre-slash. Does anyone have any suggestions about which sort of relationship it should be?


	8. Alternate

**A/N:** So, weird thing happened to me. Someone added this story to a community for original characters in X-Men fanfiction. I guess that they think because Northstar wasn't in the movies, I created his character. Oh, well.

* * *

Alternate

* * *

Sleep continuously evaded him once more.

Wearily, Jean-Paul closed his eyes once more and mentally counted to ten, hoping to drift off to sleep, but to no avail. He rose from his bed with a sigh, pulling on a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt, taking care not to wake Kurt, his roommate.

He opened the door silently and walked into the dark hall, moving forward until he found the staircase at the end and swiftly descended. The staircase concluded at the ground floor, a shared level between the boys' and girls' dorms; on the opposite side of the building, behind a different door locked to outsiders, was the staircase that led to the rooms the girls occupied.

Jean-Paul allowed the door to click shut behind him, locking upon his exit; he hadn't planned on returning to his room during the night anyway. But the noise seemed usually loud in the dark's quiet.

The vacant student lounge awaited him; it appeared that even Jones was sleeping that night. Setting his sights on the T.V., Jean-Paul wove around the foosball table and flopped down on the leather sofa. But no one else was present, and the night was late, so Jean-Paul rearranged his position so he was comfortably sprawled out over the cushions.

There wasn't much on television this late that captured his interest: he didn't really care for reruns of _Family Guy_ or _That 70's Show_, the atrocity known as _Glee_ was screening the episode in which Kurt and Finn battled for the yearbook title of "Most Hypocritical", the movies were mostly C-list slasher horror flicks, and E! was running a program about how Katy Perry thought she was more talented than Lady Gaga. As if anyone cared.

He flipped through a few more channels to find that the Discovery Channel was playing a special about "the mystery of twins".

Grief, exhaustion, and frustration cocooned over him, wrapping around him so tightly he could barely breath, yet he allowed to the program to remain on the screen.

He would never escape Jeanne-Marie. Everyday he was haunted by her image in the mirror, haunted by his own personal failings.

His head fell into his hands. This would be the rest of life. Waking up each day with the black cloud of guilt hanging over him, unable to remain his own person even while attending a school that held no familiarity of his twin sister. Despite his display of his individual personality, that continued to be negated for his image as a twin.

"Hi."

At first Jean-Paul though that he was dreaming when he heard the voice speak, but then he was unceremoniously joined on the sofa by none other than Bobby Drake, who smiled at him as if they were on friendly terms instead of merely classmates who disliked each other. How surreal.

He stared at Bobby, who was wearing a rugby-style T-Shirt and a pair of dark sweats: presumably, his pajamas.

What was Bobby doing here at this time of night? How long had he been watching him? Had he been spying from the shadows all along, but Jean-Paul failed to notice him?

"Hey," Jean-Paul returned, though he didn't especially want to talk to Bobby.

He turned away from his peer and stared at the television screen, though he was too aware of Bobby's company by his side to pay the program any attention. The other boy grated on his nerves, causing him tension that he couldn't explain. Really, it was as if Bobby's presence within the vicinity of Jean-Paul's person brought him undue apprehension.

And so, there was a simple solution: he just wouldn't spend much time around Bobby Drake, and if he did, he would just ignore the other. There was no need to bring this unnecessary stress upon himself.

"Jean-Paul?"

Ignoring Bobby Drake would be easier said than done, it seemed.

"Yes?" Jean-Paul bit back a sigh, though he was somewhat surprise by the absence of the usual rush of annoyance he experienced when he conversed with Bobby.

"I, um, well . . . I was wondering if I could call you 'J.P.', you know, as a nickname," Bobby stuttered.

Inwardly, Jean-Paul raised an incredulous eyebrow. Bobby was nervous while speaking to him? Was he honestly that coldly menacing in reputation? Maybe those rumors that he was a Satanist had something to do with Bobby's attitude.

And a nickname . . . that would suggest familiarity, which in turn would suggest friendship. Did he have time for these useless, simplistic concepts? All of this was much too friendly for his liking. This made him uncomfortable; he felt as if he should leave the room to brush Bobby off.

But he wouldn't be in Bobby's presence all that often from now, so he might as well throw a dog a bone.

"Why not?" He responded carelessly.

Bobby grinned back at him, and in that moment Jean-Paul decided to spend his remaining time on the sofa with his classmate, if only for one night.

* * *

**A/N:** Now you've read the entire story. So, what did you like? What did you dislike? Would like to see more about Jean-Paul and Bobby?

Also, does anyone have an opinion about whether this and "Speechless" should be slash stories? I curious to see what other people would say.


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